disappointment,
degrading
filth that clouds my vision and penetrates my skin,
flesh,
veins,
eating away every bit of sustaining meat that surrounds my
your
their
faces and I cringe when I see the skeletons of their thoughts, sleeping away their time in a corner and eating their cake like it just came out of a warm oven and laughing when it burns away their tastebuds. The acid that once scalded their membranes is seeping out of the soil and they've learned to live and breathe every bit of it while whistling endless tunes such as "Blow the Man Down" and "London Bridges." And every once in a while they look over at their companions in the public tomb of humiliation and remind each other that "It gets a little dark down here, mate, but you'll adjust." After all, they are missing their eyes,
hair,
hearts.
Sleeping away every minute of their mindless, dead existence and waiting for new rotting flesh to join their crypt of faith. If only they could hear the world only seven feet above them, whirring,
spinning,
racing
ahead, past morals and past technology and past every imagination they could have ever imagined in their lifetime. If perhaps they could glimpse the present, they might understand and be grateful for early death.
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